We won.
It wasn’t elegant — a scrappy two-one squeaker that came down to a third-period power play and a goal that bounced in off someone’s skate — but a win is a win, and the visiting locker room celebrated this one louder than the scoreline strictly justified, because every man on that bus had spent the pregame staring at a forty-foot insult lit up against the sky.
Twenty minutes later came the press conference. Sienna hadn’t planned to speak — owners rarely did after road games, and Coach Bud usually fielded the questions alone — but the team’s PR coordinator caught her in the hallway with an expression that told her the request hadn’t come from anywhere friendly.
“They’re asking for you specifically,” she said. “About the sign.”
“Of course they are.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
